


By Degrees

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: BDSM, Canon-adjacent, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23079313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: Ultra Magnus asks for five days before they take the final plunge, and Wheeljack spends it reminiscing, reminding himself of all the reasons he’s going to say ‘yes’.
Relationships: Ultra Magnus/Wheeljack
Comments: 19
Kudos: 98
Collections: Tfp





	By Degrees

**Author's Note:**

> This work was sponsored by a wonderful individual. :)

**O.**

  
  
Romance has never been in Wheeljack’s repertoire.  
  
Living the way he has, with the war and all, with the Wreckers, with life and death waiting around every bend -- he hasn’t much bothered with it. Didn’t think it was in the cards, as Miko would say. Didn’t try to chase it, didn’t seek it, didn’t let anyone else bother with it either.  
  
Romance had its place, and its place is nowhere near Wheeljack.  
  
Or at least, that’s how he used to think.  
  
Now he’s got an apartment. He’s got a mech he’s gonna mate. He’s got a pretty collar sitting in a box, waiting to be clicked around his neck, and it’s perfect. It’s the closest thing to romance he’s touched in all his centuries of living.  
  
But that’s starting at the new beginning. Wheeljack is a lot of things, but an improper storyteller isn’t one of them.  
  
This romance, with its ups and downs and twists and turns, still has a beginning, like all the others.  
  
Even if it isn’t a romantic one.   
  


**I.**

  
  
"I want to offer this to you," Ultra Magnus says, his tone grave and serious, as it always is, but it's not an irritation anymore. It's a comfort. It's the way Ultra Magnus is, and Wheeljack is sure he loves him for it.  
  
"But I want to make sure it's what you want," Ultra Magnus says.  
  
Wheeljack rolls his optics. "C'mon, Mags. You already know it is. I'm in it to win it. For the long haul." He eyes the collar with a longing deep in the pit of his tanks. He knows better than to take it without permission.  
  
This isn't an offer; this is a display.  
  
"I want to be sure," Ultra Magnus says. There's affection in the caress of his field. He's earnest and sincere in a way only Ultra Magnus can be. "Five days. In role. Is that acceptable?"  
  
Wheeljack works his intake. His hands shake where they scrub down his thighs. "And then I can have the collar?" His vents catch. He can’t seem to tamp down the yearning in his voice, but that’s okay. He can be open with Mags. He can trust Magnus.  
  
He can say what he wants, and trust Ultra Magnus with the information.  
  
Ultra Magnus strokes the delicate construction of the collar, designed and crafted with care no doubt. He doesn't do anything by halves. " _We_ can have the collar," he corrects.  
  
Wheeljack's insides twist with heat and want. His spark throbs. He clutches his knees to keep from snatching the collar out of Ultra Magnus’ hands. It doesn’t mean what he wants it to mean if he does that.  
  
"Five days," he agrees, though it feels like an agonizingly long time to wait for something Wheeljack already knows is a sure thing. "Then your aft is mine, Mags."  
  
"And you are mine," Ultra Magnus says, with the slight upturn to the corner of his mouth, a small smile that belongs to Wheeljack and Wheeljack alone.  
  


~

  
  
The first time Wheeljack met Ultra Magnus, he hated the uptight, rules-abiding, stick-in-the-mud mech. Was such a shame that a pretty face and prettier frame should house such a bitter personality. He ticks all the right boxes for Wheeljack, and then he opens his mouth, and all the wrong boxes start getting attention.  
  
"You're a good warrior." Ultra Magnus peruses his datapad without perusing the mech said datapad refers to. "But your record indicates an issue with following orders."  
  
"I'm a slagging awesome warrior," Wheeljack corrects. He folds his arms, stares up at Ultra Magnus, refusing to be intimidated by size or stature. Aroused, yes, but not intimidated. "And we're the Wreckers. Orders are suggestions."  
  
"Optimus Prime thinks otherwise," Ultra Magnus says, still in that dull, dry tone. Like he's more machine than mech, like there's no personality behind the rules and regulations.  
  
Frag. Springer needs to get his aft out of Delphi as soon as possible. The Wreckers need _him_ , not this pompous aft.  
  
"Prime isn't here," Wheeljack points out. "Prime's on the backaft end of the galaxy, chasing after Megatron, leavin' the rest of us here to clean the scraps. We get the job done, that's what matters."  
  
Ultra Magnus' mouth slides into a deep, deep frown of disapproval. "You lack respect," he observes, and his stylus flicks across the screen, like he's making a note of it.  
  
"Respect's for those who earn it. Mechs who live and die beside me. Who walk into the fire because no one else will," Wheeljack spits at him, and though he can hear Bulkhead at the back of his mind, telling him to calm down, watch himself, that other Autobots aren't the enemy, it's impossible to hold in the fury.  
  
Political pencil-pushers coming down here into the noise and fray, into the bloody tip of the war, like they know what it means to throw yourself into the line of fire? Wheeljack can't stand 'em. Can't stand the way they hold themselves, the way they talk, the way they snub their noses down at the soldiers.  
  
Frag them all.  
  
"You'll get respect when you've earned it," Wheeljack snaps.  
  
He spins on a heelstrut, and he stomps away, Ultra Magnus' cold stare follows him, no doubt dinging his record, writing him off.  
  
Wheeljack's not a Decepticon. He'll never be a Decepticon. But he doesn't like politics. He doesn't like the games the commanding officers play.  
  
He's an Autobot through and through.  
  
But serving under a mech like Ultra Magnus? He's not sure he can do that.  
  


**II.**

  
  
There's a time he would've thought being left a 'to-do' list was an act meant to demean him, make him feel lesser or subservient.  
  
Now, it feels like respect. Confidence. Affection. Trust.  
  
He scrubs the washrack because it needs doing, and Wheeljack likes a clean 'rack as much as Ultra Magnus does. He scrubs until it sparkles and gleams and smells fresh, and thinks about Ultra Magnus fragging him up against the wall later, pushing him to the edge over and over, until he plummets to the other side in an ecstasy that'll linger for days.  
  
He does the list not because it's expected of him, but because he wants to. And also, it's expected of him. It's complicated. He obeys because he enjoys it. Sometimes, he disobeys because punishment can be equally fun.  
  
Ultra Magnus enjoys putting him in his place. Wheeljack enjoys being put there. Not because he's meant to be beneath Ultra Magnus, but because he's meant to belong to Ultra Magnus, to be cared for, to be loved, to be treasured.  
  
To be occasionally spanked within an inch of his life, until he overloads so hard he slips into a reset. Yeah, that's the good stuff right there.  
  
Wheeljack bends the knee because he wants to, because Ultra Magnus sees it for the precious gift it is. A responsibility, Ultra Magnus calls it, and Wheeljack is very familiar with how Ultra Magnus handles his responsibilities. He's a dedicated mech, with a deep pool of emotion he rarely lets show. Except to Wheeljack.  
  
Damn.  
  
He's getting soppy over some washrack scrubbing.  
  
Wheeljack rolls his optics at himself. He's getting soft in a post-war world.  
  
But then, maybe soft isn't a bad thing.  
  
"Well done," Ultra Magnus praises when he returns to their shared home, laden with bags he won't let Wheeljack see. They're surprises for later apparently.  
  
Wheeljack flutters under the praise. He eagerly anticipates the surprise. For all his reserve, Ultra Magnus can be quite creative behind the mask.  
  
He joins Ultra Magnus in the main room, on the couch, the vidscreen on but muted. Ultra Magnus pats his thigh, and Wheeljack sprawls over the cushions, head pillowed on Ultra Magnus' broad armor. Large fingers stroke over him, his finials, the sides of his face, his throat, his shoulders, his lips. Occasionally, a sweet treat presses to his lips, and Wheeljack consumes it, fingers stroking his mouth afterward.  
  
His favorites. Freshly made even.  
  
He can have this every day, if Ultra Magnus offers the collar and Wheeljack takes it. Every day, for the rest of his functioning, a comfortable moment of shared quiet. Ultra Magnus reads. Wheeljack zones out as he watches the vidscreen and whatever Earth programming they've transmitted this season.  
  
It's almost hard to believe how much he wants this, considering how rough the road has been for the both of them.  
  


~

  
  
Earth is slagging awesome.  
  
It's hard for Wheeljack to stay, because staying isn't something he's good at, even with Bulkhead nearby. So he leaves, but he comes back, because now he has a place to come back to, a place where Bulkhead is and someone wants him.  
  
But then Earth gets Ultra Magnus, and Wheeljack finds himself stuck in the middle of a new home he's trying to make, and all the memories of the reason he fragged off on his own in the first place.  
  
Ultra Magnus has mellowed a little over the years, but not enough. The Autobots are scattered. The war is little more than a guerrilla effort of small units battling it out for territory, but Ultra Magnus still harps on rules and regulations and proper behavior. They’re not an army by any means, and Ultra Magnus treats them like one.  
  
Miko calls them family, but Wheeljack thinks Ultra Magnus doesn’t get the meaning of the word. And he didn’t get the memo.  
  
"Just give him a chance, Jackie," Bulkhead says, and he uses that tone, the one which always makes Wheeljack weak. It's hard to say no to Bulkhead.  
  
In another lifetime, Wheeljack might have tried to make Bulkhead his, but they aren't compatible like that. Bulkhead deserves better. And maybe it’s better this way, too, because that means Bulkhead is guaranteed to stay.  
  
"You're too soft," Wheeljack tells him. "It's gonna get ya killed. It's gonna get all of us killed."  
  
Bulkhead's disappointed look hurts the most. Wheeljack runs away from it, and it's Arcee who slaps him with the truth, who points him in the right direction.  
  
"I don't like you," Wheeljack finally tells Ultra Magnus, staring up at the mech who hasn't been his commanding officer for a long time. "I don't like the way you do things. But there aren't many of us left, so for now, I'll work with you."  
  
Besides, he doesn’t wanna lose Bulkhead, and if that means calling a truce with Ultra Magnus, so he can keep an optic on the big lug, then Wheeljack will do it. There aren’t a lot of Wreckers left. Wheeljack wants to keep the ones he still has.  
  
Ultra Magnus nods. Sharp. Terse. He holds his hands behind his back, standing at attention, as if relaxing an inch will make him fall apart. "We, as Autobots, must stand together," he says, as though he learned his personality from a manual. "I appreciate your willingness to set our past differences aside."  
  
Wheeljack squints at him. “Why do I feel like you’re mocking me?”  
  
“I am being sincere,” Ultra Magnus says, and he sighs a ventilation, as though Wheeljack has failed some test. “I don’t want to be your enemy. At the very least, I’d like us to be allies and have one another’s back.”  
  
“I can do that,” Wheeljack says. Should be easy enough. “So long as you stay off my back, I’ll stay outta your way, and we’ll get along just fine.”  
  
Ultra Magnus nods again. Sharp. Conceding. “That is acceptable.”  
  
It’s not a friendship. But it’ll do.  
  


**III.**

  
  
"It could be nothing, or it could be something. Go with Arcee and have a look," Ultra Magnus says, and it takes all Wheeljack has in him not to sneer at the datapad held his way.  
  
"It sounds like a job for a new recruit, not one of Team Prime," Wheeljack retorts, eyeing the datapad with abject distaste. He wants action, not some spy mission Arcee can handle by herself. "Send the kid, you know he's eager to get his tires wet."  
  
Ultra Magnus narrows his optics, and a sharp thrill runs up Wheeljack's spinal strut, even though this is a wholly inappropriate time for him to feel it. "Smokescreen is otherwise occupied. I have reason to believe this is one of Shockwave's labs. Which means I have no idea what you're going to find in there. I'm not sending an amateur. I'm sending you."  
  
Wheeljack braces his hands on the edge of the desk, leans close, his engine purring into a higher gear before he can stop it. "You know, it gets me hot when you take that tone with me."  
  
"Wheeljack, do I have to explain the difference again?" Ultra Magnus asks with a pinch to the bridge of his nose, but he can't hide the slight curve of his mouth.  
  
"No, sir," Wheeljack says, completely innocent, just to watch the shiver flutter over Ultra Magnus' armor before he can smooth it back down. He sweeps the datapad off the desk, tucking it into his subspace. "I told you, Mags. I'm all in."  
  
Ultra Magnus looks up at him. "You could argue with me a little less if you wanted to prove it."  
  
"Then I'd have to explain to you the difference, wouldn't I?" Wheeljack winks and spins around, waving over his shoulder. "I'll be back late. Don't wait up."  
  
"I want a full report," Ultra Magnus calls after him, even though he knows he's not going to get it, because those are the rules.  
  
Wheeljack breaks them, on duty, in public, in front of the Autobots, in the command center. They are lovers in their apartment, in their berth, and off-duty. Beyond that, they are two soldiers, serving together for the common good, and sometimes, Ultra Magnus is his commanding officer.  
  
It's an important distinction.  
  
His comm chimes.  
  
‘Be careful,’ Ultra Magnus says, not because he doesn’t trust Wheeljack, but because he worries, and he cares, and it’s tangled up into the part of him who’s Wheeljack’s commanding officer, and the part of him who is Wheeljack’s dominant in the berth.  
  
‘I’m coming home to you,’ Wheeljack says, like he does every time, as much of a promise as he can make, a promise that means more than anything, because everyone knows Wheeljack’s a flight risk, even decades after the fact.  
  
He waits, and then he adds something new. ‘I want that collar.’  
  
It’s not possible for a comm to transmit emotion or expression, but Wheeljack can still see the softest of smiles curling Ultra Magnus’ mouth.  
  
‘Then you better not do anything reckless.’  
  
‘Who? Me?’  
  
Wheeljack chuckles and sets off to find Arcee, a bounce in his step.  
  


~

  
  
He finds Ultra Magnus after the fact, sitting on the bridge of the Xantium, idly opening and closing the claw of his hand, staring blankly at it.  
  
Wheeljack plops down in the open seat next to Magnus, and at first, he doesn't say anything. He's not very good with words, especially when it comes to mechs like Ultra Magnus, but he feels like he ought to say something.  
  
 _Click. Snick. Click. Snick._  
  
"So..." Wheeljack shifts and raps his fingers on the arm of his chair. "There's a lotta things you can do with a claw you know."  
  
"I will adapt," Ultra Magnus says, his voice soft and empty, like he's taken what little emotion he has and shredded it in the recycler.  
  
 _Click. Snick. Click. Snick._  
  
"Good." Wheeljack pokes at the console, fussing with a few buttons. Man, this thing could really use a tune-up. "Cause, you know, it doesn't make you useless. Especially with this team. They kind of take you as you are."  
  
"Optimus has a good team here," Ultra Magnus agrees.  
  
 _Click. Snick. Screeeech. Griiiind._  
  
Wheeljack cringes and glances peripherally as Ultra Magnus attempts to bend the claw and manipulate it, but the makeshift structures protest the actions.  
  
"Stop that," Wheeljack says, rising from his chair. "You got any oil around here or something? Doc should've lubed up those gears before discharging you."  
  
"There's a maintenance kit under the navigation system."  
  
Wheeljack spots it immediately; it helps Magnus is so organized. "Got it." He pulls it out, rummages through, finds a spray bottle of gear oil. This'll do. "Alright. Let's get you lubed up."  
  
He plops his aft down on the console next to Magnus and reaches for his new hand. "Hand it over."  
  
"That was not funny," Ultra Magnus says, but he offers the claw, allowing Wheeljack to gently examine it.  
  
Doc does good work. The weld is nice and clean, and despite having limited supplies, the claw functions pretty well for what it is. Just needs a bit more oil is all.  
  
"I thought it was pretty funny," Wheeljack says, and spritz-spritzes the Pit out of the claw, until it's dripping a little, and then he wipes the excess away. He rotates the joint, working the oil through it. "Humor is the best way to get through something like this. Or anger. But you don't strike me as the angry type."  
  
Ultra Magnus cocks his head. "But I do .... 'strike you' as the humorous type?"  
  
Wheeljack cycles his optics. "Oh. Good point." He shrugs. "But you've really loosened up, ya know. Just like this here gear," Wheeljack says with a chuckle. He gently manipulates the joint, satisfied when it doesn't make that hideous grinding noise anymore. "You're not so bad now."  
  
"I suppose I only needed some time." Ultra Magnus focuses intently on Wheeljack's actions, his optics a little dim as if deep in thought. "And perhaps some lubrication."  
  
Wheeljack blinks. "Did you just make a joke?"  
  
"I am capable of humor as you said," Ultra Magnus says, and his lips curve into the slightest of smiles, barely there except Wheeljack is close enough to see it.  
  
"Yeah, you are." Wheeljack laughs before tossing the oil-dabbed rag aside. "How's that feel?"  
  
Ultra Magnus rotates the claw. Click. Snick. Not a squeak or grind to be heard. "Much better. Thank you, Wheeljack."  
  
"S'nothing." Wheeljack shrugs and hops down off the console before he gets a reprimand or something. "It's not so bad honestly. Could make a good weapon out of it if I had enough time."  
  
"Time. Yes." Ultra Magnus' lips flutter toward a frown. "We are in short supply of time and resources. I am of little use now. I should not have been so careless."  
  
Wheeljack snorts. "I don't think trying to take down Shockwave qualifies as careless." He balls up the dirtied cloth, and it tweaks something wrong, to see Ultra Magnus look like this. He can't fix it, but maybe he can make it better. "Come on. Let's go."  
  
Ultra Magnus cycles his optics. "Where?"  
  
Wheeljack jerks his head toward the exit. "Training center." He points to the newly acquired claw. "You wanna learn how to use that so you can help Prime, right? Well, the best way to do that is to practice."  
  
“You’re offering?” Ultra Magnus asks, as though he’s cycled his audials and still can’t believe what he’s heard.  
  
“The words came outta my mouth, didn’t they?” Wheeljack grins and spreads his hands, backing toward the exit. “Let’s go.”  
  


**IV.**

  
  
"Don't overload," Ultra Magnus says, and Wheeljack groans, trying to lean back, away from the torturous pleasure of the vibrator notched against his anterior cluster.  
  
The leash draws him up short. It's part of the game, to endure the pleasure without succumbing to it. Inexperienced as Ultra Magnus had been, he's learned, and he's grown, and now he knows too much, because he keeps finding ways to drive Wheeljack crazy.  
  
"This ain't right," Wheeljack pants, his hips squirming, his valve fluttering madly as lubricant drips out of him, soaking the berth beneath his thighs. "It's not fair."  
  
Ultra Magnus strokes his shoulders, down his arms, to his wrists where they’re manacled behind his back. He slips a finger, or tries to, between the cuffs and Wheeljack’s wrists, but there’s no room. He’s gotten smart about it. He knows how tight to make them so Wheeljack can’t slip them.  
  
Disobedience can be just as good as obedience.  
  
“What makes it unfair?” Ultra Magnus asks, his tone perfectly controlled, like he hasn’t been riling Wheeljack up for the past half hour, and his own field isn’t crackling with restrained desire.  
  
Wheeljack rocks his hips, shuddering as his valve pulses with need, and more lubricant dribbles onto the toy driving him mad. “I don’t even have a chance here.”  
  
Magnus quietly chuckles, and his hands sweep down Wheeljack’s sides, down his thighs, into the crook of his knees, down his calves, to his ankles. He tests the strength of the spreader bar, checks to see if the cuffs are comfortably tight, which they are. Ultra Magnus is a professional now. He’s studied and practiced enough for it.  
  
Wheeljack’s precarious balance tilts. He moans, long and low, as he sinks onto the vibrator and it buzzes through his entire array. He jerks, cycling hard and fast toward overload, and sheer force of will pushes him back upright, until the buzzing is an aching pleasure, rather than a charged surge toward climax.  
  
Wheeljack pants.  
  
“If you truly hated it, we would be having an entirely different conversation,” Magnus says, his fingers tickling sweetly where they caress Wheeljack’s valve, dancing over his yet closed spike panel.  
  
The berth dips.  
  
Magnus presses against him from behind, kneeling over Wheeljack’s bound and spread legs. There’s a click, and then his spike nudges Wheeljack’s fingers, fully pressurized and slick with pre-fluid. Wheeljack groans, finds it impossible to get a grip, and it’s sloppy, the way Magnus rocks against his hands and back and aft, leaving smears of lubricant behind.  
  
“Slag,” Wheeljack moans.  
  
A hand slides around, cups his intake, a pressure over the well-worn collar, the one Wheeljack hopes he’ll replace by the end of the week. Fingers tickle at the underside of his jaw.  
  
“How long can you last like this?” Ultra Magnus asks, and it’s as much a challenge as it is a question.  
  
“As long as you want me to,” Wheeljack brags and lies, because his insides are already knotting with arousal and tension, and it doesn’t help that Ultra Magnus’ touch is possessive, for all that it is gentle.  
  
Magnus hums, and he strokes Wheeljack’s intake, teasing around the well-worn collar as if pointing out the promise he made only a few days prior. He isn’t one for dirty talk. He speaks with his actions a lot more, and each casual touch is a possessive promise that makes Wheeljack’s head spin and his spark twirl.  
  
“As long as you can,” Magnus says, and Wheeljack shivers, his knees trembling, until he digs them into the berth and locks his joints.  
  
Magnus touches him, rocks against him, his own control like something made of steel or duryllium. He’ll delay his own pleasure until Wheeljack is a dripping, twitching, sated mess, and only then will he come undone.  
  
It’s pretty damn perfect.  
  


~

  
  
The war is over.  
  
Megatron is gone. Optimus Prime is gone. Earth is behind them, and Cybertron lies before them, and Wheeljack isn’t sure what to think about any of it.  
  
He’s not alone in that feeling, he knows. He’s not the only one wandering around what little bit of Cybertron they’ve managed to restore, or occasionally pacing the rim of the Well, wondering if they’ll catch a glimpse of Optimus swimming inside.  
  
He’s better than Ratchet at least, who’s drifting through the halls like he took a dive into that Well, too, only he left his body behind.  
  
Wheeljack roams for a bit, not sure where he’s going to go or what he’s going to do. The itch to leave crowds his circuits. He thinks maybe he might try and fix up a ship -- the Jackhammer 2.0 -- and head into the universe. Maybe some Wreckers survived. Maybe he can bring them home.  
  
He doesn’t want to leave Bulkhead behind. The war’s over, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe. There’re plenty of Decepticons out there who won’t have got the memo. And just ‘cause Megatron says he’s done, doesn’t mean he’s really done. He might come back one day, might decide Optimus’ death is their fault, or he’ll be slagged enough he doesn’t care.  
  
The war’s over.  
  
Wheeljack doesn’t know what to do with himself.  
  
He wanders through a ghost-town of a city, through shattered buildings and past frames left to rust. His feet crunch on broken glass. He finds a building, an ash-marked sign out front claiming it used to be a bar.  
  
Oh slag yeah. He could for a drink right now.  
  
The door’s busted inward. Is it considered breaking in if there’s no door to break? Wheeljack slips inside, cringing at the scent of rust and dust and abandonment. Tables and chairs are in ruins, but one survived. Wheeljack rights it, finds a chair that’ll work, too.  
  
He rifles behind the bar, discovers a few bottles looters didn’t grab, tucked up in the back behind some cleaning products. Maybe it was the owner’s favorite. He doesn’t recognize the label. He pops the seal, and his mouth waters at the scent.  
  
As fresh as the day it was bottled. Score.  
  
Wheeljack grabs a cup, plops down at a table, and starts to pour. It’s sweet and fiery and goes down silky-smooth. He’s not sure if he’s celebrating. He’s just drinking.  
  
Ultra Magnus finds him two cups in. He’s not drunk. He’s not even buzzed. He grins, however, when Ultra Magnus has to duck to come through the broken door, has to angle himself to fit his massive shoulders through.  
  
Damn, but Wheeljack loves those shoulders. Likes a lot of things about Ultra Magnus, come to think of it. He’s not such a stick in the mud now. That claw really loosened him up. And well, he’s taking Optimus’ death about as well as Ratchet is.  
  
“Something wrong, boss?” Wheeljack asks as he tips the bottle, sloppily pouring more into his cup. He slides it across the table in Ultra Magnus’ general direction.  
  
“No.” Ultra Magnus finds a chair that’ll hold his weight, if a bit wobbly, and drags it over to the table. He sits across from Wheeljack and examines the cup and its contents. “Do you mind company?”  
  
“Not if it’s you.” Wheeljack grins. Ultra Magnus, at least, won’t ask stupid questions. He won’t expect Wheeljack to give him stupid conversation either. He won’t press or pry or look at Wheeljack with worry that Wheeljack’s about to hare off into the universe.  
  
“Hm. Praxian Blue,” Magnus says, tilting his head toward the bottle and the peeling label. “It would have been rare around here. This is a good find.” He sips with his good hand, claw resting on the table.  
  
Wheeljack tips back the bottle, the engex sitting warm and bubbly in his belly. “Didn’t take you for one to drink his sorrows away.”  
  
“I feel as if I ought not be full of sorrow, but full of joy. Yet, I find it difficult to celebrate,” Ultra Magnus says. He stares into the cup, swirls it around. “I did not wish to be alone. Forgive me if I’ve invaded on your desire to be so.”  
  
Wheeljack rolls his shoulder. “Nah. Nothin’ to forgive. I wasn’t looking to be alone, just looking.”  
  
“For?”  
  
Wheeljack shrugs again. He sloshes the liquid inside the bottle, watches it glitter in the dim of the bar. “Dunno yet.”  
  
Ultra Magnus nods. He tips back the cup and finishes it in a few quick gulps which immediately make Wheeljack proud. It returns to the table, empty, and Wheeljack leans forward to refill it without being asked.  
  
“What about you?” Wheeljack asks.  
  
“I don’t know either,” Ultra Magnus says, and his face morphs into something uncontrolled and full of emotion. “It’s uncomfortable for me, this not knowing. I am, for once, at a loss.” He shifts in the chair. He takes another drink.  
  
“Huh.” Wheeljack takes a long swig of his own, savoring the liquid, letting it settle nice and warm and full of courage on his glossa. “Ya don’t want to be alone. Kind of surprised ya sought me out though. Given our history.”  
  
Ultra Magnus slants him an aside look. It’s almost… embarrassed? Bashful? Wheeljack’s not sure. Maybe he’s drank too much, and is reading things that aren’t there. “I had thought we were acquaintances, if not friends.”  
  
“Really.” Wheeljack sits up straight, a wide grin on his lips. “Well, I suppose you’re right. I don’t hate you quite so much anymore.”  
  
“Hate?” Ultra Magnus echoes.  
  
“Hate’s a strong word,” Wheeljack promises. He rolls the bottle between his hands, a weird knot of emotions twisting inside him. “Ya fragged me off a lot. Annoyed the slag out of me.”  
  
Ultra Magnus nods slowly, sips his drink, and his lips linger on the edge of the cup. “Yes. I apparently have a knack for doing so.”  
  
“But that’s in the past now.” Wheeljack waves off his old feelings, hoping Ultra Magnus gets what he means. “You’re different now. I’m different now. Pit, the whole war is different now. So friends? Yeah. We’re friends.”  
  
Ultra Magnus chuckles, and the quiet, amused sound of it makes Wheeljack’s spark do funny flip-flops in his chassis. “Then I feel it is much easier to celebrate.” He tips the cup back, finishes it off, and places it upside-down on the table in front of him.  
  
Today is a day of surprises, apparently.  
  
Wheeljack licks his lips, tastes the sweetness of the engex on them, and thinks, why not add a few more? Why not take a risk?  
  
“There are other ways to celebrate,” he says, and he leans in closer to Ultra Magnus, gets his first intimate taste of Ultra Magnus’ field. He hums when he realizes there’s something there -- a bit of heat he might not have expected. “Rumor has it you got a nice berth. Big enough for two.”  
  
“I…” Ultra Magnus trails off, his optics wide with surprise before another soft laugh escapes him. “You will never cease to surprise me, Wheeljack.”  
  
“Is that a no?” Wheeljack slides from his stool, circling the table. “Because if you just wanna keep this friends without the extra benefits, I’m cool with that.” He steps into Ultra Magnus’ space, which puts them on an even keel for once, since Magnus is still seated.  
  
He can look right into Ultra Magnus’ optics instead of up at him, and wow, how come he’s never noticed how handsome Ultra Magnus is? Probably because he’s too used to seeing Magnus’ face twisted in a scowl of disapproval. Or a neutral, empty expression.  
  
Ultra Magnus turns toward him, as if inviting Wheeljack into his space. “It’s not a no,” he says, and his glossa flicks over his lips quickly, almost like he’s trying to hide it.  
  
“So it’s a yes?” Wheeljack purrs as he leans in and waits for Ultra Magnus to lean back, out of reach, giving him another chance to refuse.  
  
His insides twist with heat, however, when Ultra Magnus lifts his chin. His optics darken to a deeper blue, and the pulse of his field rings with desire.  
  
For Wheeljack.  
  
Primus, that’s incredible.  
  
Wheeljack kisses him, soft and sweet, lips brushing, because he knows Ultra Magnus expects something fierce and biting. He kisses Magnus tender, close-mouthed, his fingers walking a soft slide along blue and white armor, silky under his fingertips.  
  
“Take me to your berth, Magnus,” Wheeljack murmurs and groans as those big, big hands settle on his waist, nearly eclipsing it. “Or, you know, we can start with this table here and find our way to a berth later. That’s good, too.”  
  
“That seems somewhat improper,” Ultra Magnus says, but his optics are spiraled wide, and the lust in his field is dizzying. He’s radiating heat, and Wheeljack has spent too many nights thinking about what Magnus might be packing, and how good it would feel inside him.  
  
“I don’t need romance.” Wheeljack clambers onto Ultra Magnus’ lap, shivering as his legs spread wide, his feet barely touching the floor. “Come on. Round one. Right here. Then we can do soft and sweet after we get it out of our system, yeah?”  
  
Ultra Magnus looks at him, and then the world spins around and around, until Wheeljack’s back hits the rickety table, and his elbow knocks off the cup. He groans at the show of strength, though not quite force as Ultra Magnus had set him down as gently as possible.  
  
“I can already tell you are going to be a handful,” Ultra Magnus says, but his optics are a deep, deep blue, and if he doesn’t pop his panel soon, his spike is gonna punch a hole through it.  
  
Wheeljack laughs, locks his ankles behind Ultra Magnus’ aft, and tugs him in close. “You can punish me for it all you want.” He rolls his hips, lets his panel slide aside, his spike pressurize, the scent of his arousal filling the air. “Come on, come on. Show me what you got.”  
  
They’re supposed to be celebrating, aren’t they? And Wheeljack can’t think of a better way to do it.  
  
  


**V.**

  
  
Their habsuite is dim, lights doused, vidscreen off, shutters drawn against an ever-changing light pattern. Cybertron drifts along, in and out of the gravitational pull of nearby suns, so the day and night cycles are unpredictable.  
  
Wheeljack stretches, squeezes the kinked cable in his lower back, and wonders if he can wheedle Ultra Magnus into an early morning massage to get it out for him. He’s exhausted, and a little bit bruised, and starving. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything more than drag his aft to the berth.  
  
He peers inside, the room dim, but a large lump visible on the berth. Biolights flutter in an even rhythm, indicative of recharge. Wheeljack tries to creep inside, join Ultra Magnus without kicking up a fuss, but the moment he gets in scanner range, Ultra Magnus is online. Or, well, not fully online. Aware enough to recognize Wheeljack, but still half in recharge.  
  
“You’re late,” Ultra Magnus says.  
  
“Yeah. Turns out the second lab was booby-trapped. Who could have guessed?” Wheeljack chuckles, tired and static, and crawls onto the berth, collapsing in an exhausted heap.  
  
He is immediately scooped into broad arms and draped over an equally broad chassis. Ultra Magnus’ engine rumbles, warm and soothing, and Wheeljack ain’t ashamed to snuggle into his partner, welcoming the affection.  
  
“You hurt?”  
  
“Nothing the Doc couldn’t patch. I’ll be one-hundred percent come morning.” Wheeljack squirms a little and adds, “Got a kinked cable in my back though. Could use some magic hands to put it to rights.”  
  
Ultra Magnus chuckles, deep and quiet, the vibrations rattling through his armor and over Wheeljack’s plating. “I would be happy to attend that for you,” he murmurs, one hand cupping Wheeljack’s aft, the other rising to lay warm and big over his lower back. “Now?”  
  
“Nnn. Morning’s fine.” Wheeljack tucks his face against Ultra Magnus’ intake, sprawling over the big bot like staking a claim. There’s just so much of Ultra Magnus. It’s one of the many reasons he loves the mech. “Got one more lab on the list tomorrow, and if I’m lucky, it won’t explode in my face this time.”  
  
“Then I will have to prepare a special reception for you,” Ultra Magnus says, his field wrapping Wheeljack in a warm embrace brimming with affection.  
  
Wheeljack purrs. “You give all the best presents.” He wriggles again, notching himself into all his favorite places, listening to the steady, deep throb of Magnus’ spark. “How much longer you gonna make me wait?”  
  
“We’ll see,” Ultra Magnus says, in a tone Wheeljack knows not to question, because Ultra Magnus is not going to budge. Once he’s got something settled in his processor, very little can dissuade him. “I want you to be sure this is what you want.”  
  
“I already am sure,” Wheeljack grumbles, but it’s more or less sub-vocal. He’ll wait as long as it takes. He’s already surprised every day they are here, when he used to despise Ultra Magnus so much.  
  
Cybertronians live for a long time. Apparently, long enough for even the most stubborn mechs to change.  
  


~

  
  
Once became twice became three times became so many times Wheeljack loses track. He stops counting because there’s no point. He stops questioning and starts assuming. He stops asking and starts showing up, and doesn’t blink when Ultra Magnus appears in his periphery with an invitation or an expectation.  
  
It’s just interfacing.  
  
And then it’s more than that. It’s shared drinks after a long shift, or sparring sessions in the new training area, or playful banter over mission reports.  
  
Or the first time Wheeljack demands ‘harder,’ and Ultra Magnus obliges without missing a beat. When Ultra Magnus threatens to cuff him, and Wheeljack all but begs him to do it. Or when Wheeljack grows some bearings and asks Ultra Magnus for more, puts his trust in Ultra Magnus’ hands, and gives the mech power over him.  
  
It’s heady, how Ultra Magnus treats him, how he cradles that trust like it’s a fragile thing. He’s not good at it, at first, and Wheeljack jokes he should do some research, because that’s the kind of thing Ultra Magnus would probably do.  
  
It’s just a joke.  
  
But the next time they’re lounging on the couch, sharing space, Wheeljack watching some action movie and Ultra Magnus reading, it’s a datapad explaining the ins and outs of domination and submission play. He’s actually doing fragging research, and Wheeljack is simultaneously impressed and touched and ridiculously turned on.  
  
“Have you got to the section on fisting yet?” Wheeljack asks, all casual-like, because discombobulating Ultra Magnus is one of his greatest joys in life.  
  
There’s a hitched ventilation behind him before Magnus says, “I finished it already.” His voice gains strength and courage. “Is that something you’d like to do?”  
  
“With your hands? No, thanks.” Wheeljack grins and squirms, looking up at Ultra Magnus from the pillow he’s made of the mech’s massive thigh. “Spanking on the other hand…”  
  
“Yes. You are certainly in need of discipline,” Ultra Magnus replies in that deadpan tone which is half-serious, half-teasing. Wheeljack knows it for the glimpse of humor he rarely shows anyone else.  
  
Wheeljack laughs and hauls himself upright, into Ultra Magnus’ lap, notching their frames together. “What else ya found?”  
  
Ultra Magnus’ gaze flicks to the datapad and back to Wheeljack. “It’s a comprehensive text. You’ll have to tell me what you are and aren’t interested in.” He pauses, purses his lips. “We’ve not been participating correctly. We never discussed a safe word.”  
  
“Because I don’t need one.” Wheeljack busies himself with examining the complicated structures of Ultra Magnus’ chassis, ever fascinated by the Earth kibble he has yet to shed. “I can take anything.”  
  
“Perhaps you need to read the datapad as well. It’s not about suffering, but enjoying,” Ultra Magnus says, and it sounds like a chastisement, but his tone is soft. Gentle. Worried. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He pauses. “Unless you ask for it. I’m beginning to think you are a masochist.”  
  
It’s the first time he’s used such a term, but it falls so naturally from his lips.  
  
Wheeljack grins and nuzzles Ultra Magnus, nipping at the curve of his jaw. “Someone’s a fast learner,” he purrs and rocks against the larger mech, arousal twisting into a hard knot in his belly. “What if I told you I want you to hold me down and make me beg for it? Make me work for it? Make me take it?”  
  
Ultra Magnus shivers, his armor flaring, and they’re so close, Wheeljack can taste the rising arousal in Magnus’ field. “I would do it,” he says, and his voice is low and deep, rattling over Wheeljack’s plating, rumbling in his audials. “With a safe word.”  
  
Wheeljack moans and kisses him, hard and fast, mouths impacting. He rolls his hips, ruts against Ultra Magnus despite his closed panels. “Jackhammer,” he says, or maybe it’s closer to a pant, because he can’t get it out of his head now, the image of Ultra Magnus indulging all the dark and dirty fantasies. “If it makes you feel better, ‘kay. That’s my safe word.”  
  
Ultra Magnus grips his aft, picks him up and stands with ease, because he’s that much bigger and stronger than Wheeljack. The datapad vanishes somewhere, Wheeljack doesn’t care, because Ultra Magnus is taking him to the berthroom, laying him out on the berth and looming over him.  
  
“Jackhammer,” he repeats, his optics dark and hungry. “But only if you’re mine.”  
  
Wheeljack moans, he can’t help it. There’s a possessive flash in Ultra Magnus’ optics, like the hard shell of control around him is crackling and letting Wheeljack in.  
  
“Yours.” Wheeljack grins, hooks his ankles around Ultra Magnus and reels him in, sinks his fingers into seams until they’re locked together. “Only yours, right? Because that’s what you’re really asking. To make this thing serious, like it’s not already.”  
  
“Yes. Only mine,” Ultra Magnus says, and there’s an edge of a growl in his voice, something Wheeljack hears rarely, and it turns him to goo each time.  
  
Wheeljack grabs Ultra Magnus by the back of the neck and pulls him down for a kiss. “I thought you’d never ask.”  
  


**VI.**

  
  
Five days is not so long, but it feels like an eternity while knowing what waits for him.  
  
Wheeljack has been on bolts and brackets, eyeing that slim box with longing, knowing the promise it means, and waiting for the moment it’ll be offered to him.  
  
Five days of waiting. Five days of reminiscing. Five days of asking himself if this is what he wants, and Wheeljack has the same answer now as he did five days ago.  
  
So now Wheeljack kneels. And he waits.  
  
Ultra Magnus retrieves the box. He kneels in front of Wheeljack, until their knees almost touch, though it does little to match their size difference. He still looms, and it’s as sexy now as it was the first time Wheeljack ever saw Ultra Magnus, and realized how much he wanted to be pinned beneath the larger mech.  
  
Wheeljack jitters in his armor, simultaneously excited and terrified. This is it. This is finally it.  
  
“I’m not very good with words,” Ultra Magnus says in his grave tone, and Wheeljack flashes to five days prior before he sinks back into his frame. “But I’m going to try my best.”  
  
Wheeljack rests his hands over Ultra Magnus’ and the box he carries. “I’m not good with words either. You know that. I don’t need words.”  
  
“They are important to me,” Ultra Magnus murmurs, and yes, this Wheeljack knows.  
  
He nods and sits back, listening, though his insides twirl with anticipation.  
  
“We are very different,” Ultra Magnus says, still in that funereal tone, and Wheeljack’s spark swells with love. “There was a time we did not like each other very much.”  
  
Wheeljack snorts a laugh. “That’s being nice about it. I hated your gears, and I’m pretty sure I frustrated you beyond reason.”  
  
Ultra Magnus’ lips twitch. “Yes, you did,” he says and then he cycles a ventilation. “You are right. Ceremony isn’t for either of us, is it?”  
  
“Nope.” Wheeljack pops the word and closes his fingers around the box on Ultra Magnus’ palm. “Let me have it. Don’t make me beg. You know I’m good at it.”  
  
“Yes, you are.” Ultra Magnus rumbles with amusement and affection, and he slides the box out from under Wheeljack’s hands so he could fumble with the latch on it. His fingers are shaking, Wheeljack realizes, and his spark aches a little more.  
  
The lid opens. Magnus sets it aside. There, lying on a bed of mesh cloth, is a collar. It’s not meant for public wear, and it greatly resembles the one Wheeljack already has, save that it’s shining new and elegantly engraved. He doesn’t know where Ultra Magnus had it made. He’ll save the asking for later.  
  
“Humans exchange rings when they pledge their futures to one another,” Ultra Magnus says as he takes the collar from the box and holds it out.  
  
Wheeljack’s fingers shake as he drags one down the length of it, tasting the cool, silky-smooth metal with his fingertips.  
  
“It’s a nice tradition,” Ultra Magnus says. “It does not function for us, though I am keen on the idea of a physical representation of a promise two people make to each other.”  
  
“Wanna show me off, Mags? Is that it?” Wheeljack asks, and he rises up, rather than sitting on his heels, if only to gain a few more inches of space. “Want everyone to know you’ve claimed me, and I’ve claimed you?”  
  
Ultra Magnus’ engine gives a quiet rev, though his expression betrays nothing. “You would enjoy that?”  
  
“What? Walking around with ‘property of Ultra Magnus’ stamped on my aft?” Wheeljack cups Ultra Magnus’ face, draws it close to his, presses their foreheads together. “I dunno how else to say that I’m yours and you’re mine. Gimme that collar already, because I wanna suck you off and blow your mind.”  
  
“I don’t know why I thought this would go any differently,” Ultra Magnus says, but there’s a genuine curve to his lips and delight in his field, and when he presses the collar into Wheeljack’s hands, a thrill runs up Wheeljack’s spinal strut.  
  
He shakes his head, pushes it back toward Ultra Magnus. “No, no. You gotta put it on me, Mags.” Wheeljack tilts his head back, bares his intake and taps it. “Right here.”  
  
Ultra Magnus takes the collar back. His fingers are deft but gentle as they latch it around Wheeljack’s intake, stroking the delicate plating in the meantime. Heat cascades through Wheeljack’s sensory net, his spark strobing hard and fast.  
  
“Perfect,” he says, and hauls Ultra Magnus closer. “You and me, in for the long haul,” he says, and kisses Ultra Magnus, hard and fast, grinning against Ultra Magnus’ mouth, the weight of the collar perfect against his intake.  
  
“Yes,” Ultra Magnus murmurs. “We are.”  
  


****

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated. ^_^


End file.
